everything there was dark and dirty. outside my window was a steeple
with a clock that always said twelve-thirty. young girls are coming to the canyon
and in the mornings i can see them walking. i can no longer keep my blinds drawn
and i can't keep myself from talking. at first so strange to feel so friendly. to say good morning and really mean it. to feel these changes happening in me
but not to notice till i feel it. young girls are coming to the canyon
and in the mornings i can see them walking. i can no longer keep my blinds drawn
and i can't keep myself from talking. cloudy waters cast no reflection;
images of beauty lie there stagnant. vibrations bounce in no direction
and lie there shattered into fragments. young girls are coming to the canyon
and in the mornings i can see them walking. i can no longer keep my blinds drawn